Depression and Anti-Depressants

There are no underage characters in this Humor & Satire. All characters portrayed are over 18.

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Are you sad and thinking about taking anti-depressant medication? If you are, then you need to read this. Are you depressed and already taking anti-depressant medication? If you are, then you need to read this.

During a recent visit to the Hershey Medical Center in Hershey, Pennsylvania for my annual checkup, my doctor's nurse asked me a simple, albeit loaded and quite personal question.

"Are you depressed?"

I heard what she said but I was surprised that she'd even ask me such a personally intrusive question. I mean, the first time meeting the woman, I didn't even know the woman. Depression is something that I'd talk about with my girlfriends in hushed whispers while drinking wine. Now, unless she was going to open a bottle of wine, change into our nightgowns, and light a candle, my lips were sealed. My depression is none of her business. Nonetheless my involuntarily reaction to her inappropriate question, I just wanted to hear her ask me the question again, if only to make sure that I heard her correctly.

"Pardon?"

She looked at me and smiled as if she was a psychiatric nurse at a mental hospital filling out the necessary paperwork to legally commit me and confine me before locking me away in my padded, rubber room.

"Are you depressed?" She asked again with her fingers poised on her laptop keyboard ready to write my answer.

"Am I depressed?"

I looked at her as if yes was my obvious answer. I wondered why she'd ask me such a too personal question. Do I look depressed?

"Yes," she said staring at me with her fingers still poised on her keyboard ready to record my answer.

Running through all the people that I know, relatives, friends, and co-workers, I couldn't think of a sadder group. Especially in this sour economy, no one that I know seems happy. Everyone, including me, sad to say, seems depressed.

"Unless they're rich, good looking, wicked smart, and blessed with a great body, isn't everyone depressed. With all of us living while waiting to die, why wouldn't we be depressed?" I looked at her as if she had just trapped me by asking me a trick question. "Life is sometimes depressing."

She gave me that plastic smile, the one that makes me wonder if I'm crazy to be so annoyed by just a smile. Definitely, I was already upset by her question. If was just glad that she had already taken my blood pressure because if she took it now, it would be off the charts and my doctor would be prescribing me more medication that I don't need, don't want, and can't afford.

"Yes, but are you depressed?" She enunciated the word 'you' to make her question even more intrusively personal.

"Of course I'm depressed. I'm a writer," I said laughing. "I think way too much," I said while thinking of all the other things that have happened in my life to have caused my depression.

* * * * *

Suddenly inspired by her probing question while thinking more about depression, I thought of writing this verbal exchanged as a story, a humor & satire, and/or a review & essay about prescription drugs, specifically anti-depressant medication. My saving grace and my salvation, I'm always thinking of stories everywhere I go, which is why I always carry around a pen and paper and a small pocket tape recorder with me. Maybe because I'm always preoccupied while thinking of stories is the reason why my nurse mistook my preoccupation for depression.

One day I hope to have money enough to buy a laptop computer to lug around, especially while waiting to see the doctor. Perhaps, if the nurse had seen me typing on a laptop, she wouldn't think me depressed, just busy in the way she was busy when she typed my answer on her laptop. Definitely, while watching her type, I didn't think she was depressed, just busy.

Now they have I-pads and I-pods but, basically computer illiterate but for e-mail and Word for Windows I don't know enough about them to even want one. Having never texted or twittered anyone, not even having a Facebook page, an ATM card, or even a cell phone, I'm a dinosaur bypassed and confused by modern day technology. If it wasn't for the superiority of word processing software, I'd still be handwriting and/or typing my stories on a typewriter.

* * * * *

While trying to look over her shoulder to see what she was writing about me, I watched the nurse type something in my permanent, never to be erased, record on her laptop computer. Not wanting her to see me peeking, I didn't want her to add paranoia to my depression. She didn't seem amused by my off the cuff comment that I was depressed because I'm a writer. What does that even mean? Is that to say that all writers are depressed? I bet J. K. Rowling isn't depressed being that she's a billionaire and doesn't have to write another damn word other than her name on a withdrawal slip.

"I'd like to withdraw a million dollars American please in large bills for tips. I'm traveling to America. Everything there is so expensive," I imagine her saying while filling her briefcase with neatly stacked, one-hundred-dollar bills and handing it off to her bodyguard to carry the twenty-two pound heavy load.

Yet, not only is it true that I'm depressed because I'm a writer but also I thought it was funny that I'm depressed because I'm a writer. Sitting alone while thinking and writing for hours as family members and friends are living life large and having fun without me, what writer isn't depressed and/or insanely sad to want to remain alone while writing? Actually, truth be told, I'm my happiest when creating plots, developing characters, and writing dialogue, imagery, description and scenes with tension. Moreover, when writing, I'm not lonely at all. Once I develop my characters and once I breathe life in them and they step off the page, I have plenty of company. It's then that they stand behind me and look over my shoulder to read what I'm writing about them while whispering in my ears what to write next.

Alas, much like comedians and clowns who laugh on the outside and cry on the inside, they are a depressed bunch too. Actually, now that I think of it, the only people that I know who aren't depressed are politicians, especially Republicans. Speaker Boehner and Mitch McConnell, Minority Leader, always have that cat that just ate the canary look as if they just pulled more wool over the eyes of middleclass Americans by passing more behind closed doors legislation to remove entitlements when they are the most entitled. Yes, our public servants are quite the happy bunch of self-serving assholes. With them having access to power, influence, all the money they'll need for the rest of their miserable lives, and the best healthcare in the world, they have nothing to be depressed about. They are a happy bunch of bitches and bastards, aren't they?

The only other people that I know who aren't depressed are that group of folks, a different group each day, who ring the bell of the stock market to close business for the day. Everyone is standing there smiling, laughing, and happy that they're making enormous amounts of money while too many of us don't have jobs, money for food, rent, and gas for our cars. Nothing more than a dream, I imagine having an AK-47 and blasting them all away for being so rich when I'm so poor.

"Go ahead. Ring that fucking bell now. I dare you. Go ahead, I double dare you to ring that fucking bell," I imagine saying while filling them all full of bullet holes from my AK-47 that I bought at a gun show with my legal right to arm myself under the Second Amendment law of the United States Constitution. Charlton Heston, if he were still alive, would be so proud of me that it brings a tear to my eye.

"A lone gunwoman, a depressed woman who was recently prescribed anti-depressant medication, shot and killed a dozen people at the New York Stock Exchange while they rang the bell to close the day of business," I imagine the news reporter saying on TV.

Another very good year for the haves and another very bad year for the have nots, 2013 is a banner year for those who have their money in the stock market. Let's see a show of hands. How many of you have money in the stock market, not counting 401K money that is if you even have a job. Even if you have money in the stock market via a 401K, with brokers continuing buying and selling our stocks just to bilk us unnecessary and excessive fees, we have absolutely no control over that front loaded, hidden fee retirement scam.

Instead of ticker tapes, Dow Jones and NASDAQ, all that I see are people with the hope of winning the lottery. All that I see are scratched, losing scratch tickets. There's a reason why rich people don't buy lottery tickets. They don't have to buy lottery tickets. They've already won the lottery by being born rich.

* * * * *

Sports fans, whether hockey, soccer, football, baseball, or rugby fans are another group that go from deep depression to utter happiness. When their teams are winning, they're happy. When their teams are losing, they're depressed. Manic depressive, sports fans are a recognized bipolar group that have severe mood disorder.

Maybe their moodiness is the reason why they drink so much. I dunno. Maybe there moodiness and their drinking are the reasons why they fight so much. I dunno that either. Maybe their moodiness, drinking, and fighting are the reasons why they gamble so much. Who's to know? Maybe their moodiness, drinking, fighting, and gambling are the reasons why sports fans are so depressed, especially when their beloved teams are losing. Now, that could be the answer.

Now that I think of it, too dumb, too good looking, and too hot to be sad, cheerleaders are a happy bunch. Now that I think more about it, I've never seen a depressed cheerleader. Maybe instead of handing out happy pills, my doctor should be giving me a cheerleading outfit to wear.

"Give me an H. Give me an A. Give me a P, P, Y. What does that spell? Happy! We're happy because so many men lust over us and want us. Hooray!"

Now that I think about it, models are another group who aren't depressed. Be honest, has anyone ever seen a depressed lingerie, fitness, or swimsuit model? The same thing goes for Olympic athletes. They are quite the happy bunch. On a role now, astronauts are another happy group. How many times have we seen astronauts smiling and waving to us from space while the rest of us watch them on TV? If I wasn't depressed before, I'm depressed now just thinking of cheerleaders, models, Olympic athletes, and astronauts.

* * * * *

Am I depressed? Such an odd question for the nurse to ask me when I'm there for a physical examination and not a mental one. Besides is she even qualified to invade my mental state by asking me such a personal question about my emotional stability or instability? If only she knew I have an AK-47 in the trunk of my car, I wonder if she'd still be asking me such a personal question about my mental state. Being that she asked me such an invasive question, I wanted to invade her privacy by asking her some very personal questions too.

"Listen here, nurse, before I answer your personal question about if I'm depressed or not, allow me to ask you some personal questions first. Okay? How about you? Being that the real measure of happiness today is money and sex, are you financial secure? Are you sexually satisfied? Are you fucking happy? Don't look at me as if I'm crazy bitch, just answer my questions."

Aha! When she didn't answer me, I knew that I was onto something.

"Since we're on the topic of sex and being that you were first to be so very personal, as if we're BFF, best friends forever, even though we're not, do you suck cock? Do you allow your husband, your boyfriend, and/or your son to cum in your mouth or just on your tits? Do you swallow are you a spitter? Have you ever had an orgasm while having sexual intercourse with your boyfriend, husband, and/or son? Do you take it up the ass?"

Knowing full well that she'd never answer any of my questions and knowing full well that she'd think me crazy, especially after she called for security, it was fun to think of all that I wanted to ask her. Ah, somehow, I felt better knowing that there are no boundaries between a nurse and a patient while waiting to be physically examined by my primary care doctor. Promising to show them my AK-47 when done with the doctor, when security came, I assured them that I was normal by engaging them in conversation about our respective gun collections.

* * * * *

With my nurse asking me if I'm depressed, I'd expect a psychiatrist or a psychologist to ask me such a personal question if I was there having my head examined instead of having my body invaded by my primary care doctor's latex gloved hands. Being that she set me off and being that I answered her question, if only by my enraged emotional state, without even having to answer her question, how dare she ask me such an emotionally invasive and upsetting question? Maybe wearing my feelings on my sleeve while typically hiding how I truly feel from strangers with humor, no doubt blowing her personal, probing question out of proportion, I wondered why she asked me if I was depressed. I must be slipping in hiding my misery with my street mask, my feigned happy face with my happy smile plastered on my lips. As if I'm a demurely submissive, Japanese woman waiting to be sexually violated by a stranger on a bus or a train or a mentally challenged person working at the supermarket bagging groceries, I'm usually smiling all the time. Happy to be alive, I'm always so frigging happy.

"Happy! Happy! Happy!"

"I'm just curious," I said to the nurse while interrupting my happy party of one to the nurse and while giving her my best and biggest smile. "Why do you ask? Do I look depressed to you?"

I imagined grabbing her by the shoulders and slapping her across her face for her to answer me honestly. Instead, I widely and wildly smiled at her to show her that I wasn't depressed. I smiled at her to show her how happy I was to be there waiting and waiting and waiting at the doctor's office. No doubt, I'll smile while he touches, feels, probes, gropes, and violates every hole of my nearly naked body covered only by a thin, cotton Johnny that's open in the back.

Depressed? I'm too fucking happy to be depressed. Why would I be depressed while waiting to die? Eventually, hopefully later than sooner, I'm going to die? You're going to die. My doctor is going to die. Everyone we know are going to die. Everyone who now resides on the planet and who will reside on the planet are all going to die. We're all living to die.

"God, I'm so fucking depressed!"

Again, if I was a submissive, Japanese women being examined by a perverted Japanese doctor, how convenient would it be for him to bend me over an examination table and have his wicked way with my nearly naked body while wearing only this idiotic Johnny. I wondered if I'd still be smiling if my doctor was sexually abusing me. Being that I wouldn't want to seem depressed, I wondered what the proper protocol was for my doctor to think that I was totally normal while he was having his wicked sexual way with me. I dunno, there must be a book out there somewhere, feigned happiness for depressed people while trying to act normal.

"Doctor! What are you doing?"

"I'm giving you a rectal examination," I imagine him saying to me in defense of his inappropriate sexual actions with him sticking his cock up my ass.

"I beg your pardon? Is this a new kind of rectal examination? In the way that you now take my temperature by waving a wand across my forehead ala Dr. McCoy on Star Trek, are you really giving me a rectal exam with your cock?"

"I'm probing you with my cock to determine your level of depression," I imagined him saying and believing him because he was the doctor and I was the patient.

* * * * *

Unable to hide how I truly felt and finding some solace and satisfaction in answering my nurse honestly, I knew that I was depressed. Having been depressed all of my life, unable to remember a day when I wasn't depressed, I've always been depressed. Being that I've been depressed as far back as I can remember, I've learned to live with depression in the way that I live with a bad hair day by wearing a hat or in my case by wearing a happy mask and smiling even though I'd rather be crying. Maybe they saw my bumper sticker on my car, I'd Rather Be Crying than Driving.

Even after having received years of therapy for all the physical trauma that happened to me in my life, along with the emotional baggage that I carry with me, here I am writing erotica on a porn board. Go figure. If that's not depressing, I don't know what is.

With seemingly nothing helping my depressed mood, not therapy, not Yoga, not meditation, and not even Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice cream, I've learned to live with depression as part of personal makeup and part of my life. Now to know that there's a happy pill out there, an anti-depressant pill that will take away my sadness, as if the medical profession is trying to take away my blankie, I don't want them to do that. Yet, I can't help but wonder what it must feel like to be happy all the time. Always smiling, always laughing, and always being so fucking annoying to other depressed people like me, I can't imagine being a politician, a cheerleader, a model, an Olympic athlete, and/or an astronaut. I'm just depressed me.

Then, when my doctor finally came in the room after keeping me waiting for forty-five, excruciatingly long minutes, some healthcare we have in this country when the doctor's time is so very much valuably important than the patients' time. I could be a doctor too, you know. I could have an important job that the time that I spend away from it could be a life and death situation. Why do we even bother making an appointment?

Yet, being that he's always late to see me, seeing me at his convenient pleasure, it's as if he knows that I'm unemployed and have no place else to go other than to sit there waiting for him to see me. Maybe he's just overworked and busy but at least he has a job. Boy talk about depression when being stuck in that little examination room with nothing to do while wondering if there's anything medically wrong with me, if I wasn't depressed before, I am now. Is it any wonder why I'm depressed and, if they knew that I'm already depressed, why add to my depression by keeping me waiting? I occupied myself by thinking of the conversation that I'd have with the appointment setter when making my next appointment.

"What time would you like to make your next appointment to see the doctor?" I imagine the healthcare, administrative assistant asking me.

Of course, you mean to say, I thought to myself, as if I was waiting for the cable man or a furniture delivery to arrive, you want me to give you a range when I can expect the doctor to see me? Is that it?

"Does it really matter what time I make the appointment? Figuring that I'm going to have to sit and wait in the waiting room and wait again in the tiny cubicle they call an exam room, I'll see the doctor whenever I get there and whenever he can see me," I imagined saying to the woman making the appointments. "How's that? That way instead of one of us being late for our appointment, one or both of us may be early."

I wish I could say that but just as the nurse didn't think I was funny when I told her that I was depressed because I'm a writer, I didn't think the healthcare administrative assistant making my next appointment would think me funny if I told her about my no appointment time comment. If you ask me, some of these healthcare professional seem depressed, angry actually. Definitely, terminally depressed, they are not a happy lot. I suppose with all the sick and depressed people that they see, their patients' mood eventually rub off on them. Maybe with food their comfort, depression is the reason why so many nurses and EMT's are so morbidly obese. Instead of asking me if I'm depressed, maybe my doctor should be asking his nurse if she's depressed. Definitely, depression would explain why she's so fat.